Vozmozhnost
by WendieZ
Summary: In Russian, the words for opportunity and possibility are one and the same. As a gift for the second anniversary of their partnership, Napoleon introduces his friend to a beautiful and intellectual woman, the daughter of Russian immigrants. But, will Illya view this as an opportunity, a possibility or just plain meddling? Final chapter up. Did it end the way you expected?
1. Chapter 1

**Vozmozhnost'**

By Wendie Z

_In Russian, the words for opportunity and possibility are one and the same. As a gift for the second anniversary of their partnership, Napoleon introduces his friend to a beautiful and intellectual woman, the daughter of Russian immigrants. But, will Illya view this as an opportunity, a possibility or just plain meddling? Pre-series._

Napoleon Solo leaned back in his chair, his left ankle resting across his right knee, folded his hands; digits interlocked with the index fingers forming a spire and studied his bespectacled partner across the lunch table. Illya Kuryakin had already finished his sandwich and his full attention was on a rather thick, soft-cover book that Solo knew to be the most recent issue of The American Journal of Physics. "You know it's impolite to ignore your partner, _partner_."

Illya did not look up. "When you really have something important to say, I shall be more than attentive. But until then, I refuse to sit here and pretend not to notice the stain on your tie."

Reflexively, Napoleon looked down at his favorite _and_ expensive tie, realizing only then that he was being toyed with. It didn't help when Napoleon heard the blond-haired agent chuckle. "Made you look."

It helped even less when he looked up at the Russian's smug grin. His lip curled in aggravation. "Very funny. Just remember that paybacks can be hell."

"I think it's safe to say that I've done more than my share of penance, being the focus of many of your so-called practical jokes. So, what did you feel was so earth-shattering that you had to interrupt my reading?"

"Ah, yes, the comment." Solo uncrossed his leg and sat up straight. "And a really important one, I might add, worthy of your full attention."

"I'll reserve judgment on its worthiness, if you don't mind."

"It's just that I wanted to well-wish you on the beginning of our third year as partners."

A flicker of mild surprise crossed the calm expression. "Really? The date really hadn't occurred to me." And he looked down to read once more.

"I thought some kind of celebratory plans might be in order for the evening."

"Certainly. Feel free to celebrate all you like. _My_ plans are to go home with my favorite Chinese Carry-out, lay a stack of records on the changer, put my feet up and catch up on my reading."

"Sounds exciting. Is that the lucky journal?" Napoleon said pointing.

"You may scoff all you like, but our feathered friends read the same journals. Someday, the information here might be very useful."

"Yeah, you never know when you might be called upon to crack the odd atom or two. Look, Illya, it's our anniversary, we aren't on a mission and I can't believe you're going to spend it with your nose in some book. You need to get some romance in your life and you're not going to get it there in that journal."

"How often do we have to rehash this old argument? You have more than enough romance for both of us. I have better things to do with my extremely limited spare time than pursue a meaningless entanglement that is diametrically opposed to the parameters of my profession."

"I guess that means you wouldn't be interested in going out to dinner on a double date," Solo said with a sigh.

Illya looked up. "Napoleon, you have an excellent grasp of the obvious. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some lab work to finish and you have a report to add to mine." He stood, and walked around the table, bending over. "Happy anniversary," he said quietly. "It has been, for the _most part, _a pleasure working with you."

When Napoleon looked up, there was a smile on his friend's lips as if to punctuate the sentence. He echoed the smile.

"But, I'm still not interested in double-dating," Illya finished. "I'll see you later."

The Russian agent walked past the American to the door without looking back. But if he had turned, he would have seen the smile on Napoleon's face change to a sly grin. "Yes you will, my friend."

When Illya arrived at his apartment, he found an envelope taped to the door, with a quote written on the front in Napoleon's handwriting_:_

**The excellence of a gift lies in its appropriateness rather than in its value.**

**Charles Dudley Warner**

Curious, he pulled theenvelope from the door and let himself into the apartment. He laid his technical journal on the coffee table with the envelope, his keys and his supper before starting his ritual security sweep. Then, he picked up the envelope and pulled out a single-fold note card. It read:

**Be dressed and ready to go at 8:00 sharp. No excuses.**

Illya slid the note card back into the envelope, a frown forming on his lips; Napoleon was up to something and from experience, he knew it was not necessarily a "something" to look forward to. "Please, Napoleon," he said softly to the envelope, "not a party." He sighed heavily. _Anything but a party—_

Though tempted to ignore Solo's note, he knew better than to not follow the instructions on the notecard. If Napoleon found him waiting in his underwear, he'd either badger him until he got dressed or drag him out in public undershorts notwithstanding. Consciously kindling his annoyance into a smoldering bad mood, he went into the bedroom to change.

Napoleon was punctual. At eight o'clock, Illya heard a "shave-and-a-haircut" wrap on his door. The Russian had an inclination to make his partner wait to be admitted, but out of necessity Napoleon had a key to Illya's apartment as Kuryakin did for Solo. They each could gain admittance to the other's apartment at will.

With a sigh, Illya opened the door, taking in his partner's attire which was every bit as casual as his own black turtleneck shirt and black suit.

"Hi," Napoleon greeted jovially. "Ready to go?"

"No, I am not ready to go," Illya grumbled back. "I had a perfectly acceptable evening planned for myself, which did not involve going out on the town. No matter how many times I try to explain that I don't wish to be 'set up', you manage to either ignore it or conveniently forget."

"I promise this isn't a set-up."

"And I don't want a party."

"It's not a party."

"What is it, then?" Kuryakin asked suspiciously.

Napoleon smiled. "It's an opportunity. Come on, trust me on this. Have I ever steered you wrong?"

Illya turned out the light and followed Solo into the hallway. "I've lost count."

Two blocks away, Napoleon hailed a taxi, allowing his partner to enter the vehicle first. He gave the driver an address, which made Kuryakin turn to face him with a look of mild surprise.

"The Russian Tea Room?" he said, his interest piqued. "I was not aware that Petya had received another shipment. He usually contacts me when his supplier has come through."

"So, you're not as put out with me as before?"

"It's been a while since I've been able to savor the 'little water' from home. So, yes, you are exonerated somewhat."

"Only somewhat?" Napoleon replied faking indignation.

"I haven't decided yet if this isn't some ploy to get me to complete a foursome of some young lady to whom you've promised a dinner but she has a friend in from out-of-town."

Solo thumped his chest with his fist in mock woundedness. "Oh, ye of little faith, Illya. Why then would I be taking us to someplace as esoteric as the Russian Tea Room? Italian, my friend. That's where to take a lady on a first date; especially when there's a second couple in tow." And he grinned as Illya started to frown once more.

"Are you honestly trying to make me hurt you? You really do like to play with fire, don't you?"

"Retract the fangs, _tovarisch_. This is going to be a pleasant evening, I promise. And if it isn't, you have my permission to take it out on me at a later time. Deal?"

Kuryakin studied his partner for a moment, then nodded. "Okay, deal. Only remember, Napoleon, that paybacks from _me_ make hell look like a romp in the park."

"Don't I know it, my friend," Solo said with a smile. "Don't I know it."

The main dining room of the Russian Tea Room was just beginning to fill up when the pair of UNCLE agents entered. The _maître d'_ recognizing Illya, greeted them both in Russian and asked if they wanted a table or would be sitting at the bar.

Napoleon answered, also in Russian that the far end of the bar was where he preferred and proceeded in that direction. Illya however, lingered for a few moments to converse with his acquaintance. By the time he joined Solo again, there were two shot glasses on the bar and a bottle of expensive "imported" Russian vodka on ice between them.

"Would you care to do the honors?" Napoleon asked, though he knew his friend did.

Moments later, the pair was toasting the other on the start of their third year as partners.

"To another year," Illya said, raising his glass.

Napoleon touched his glass to his partner's. "And may we live to see it through." He smiled.

Illya looked at him for a moment as all the implications of the phrase settled around them. "Yes," he replied softly. "May we do just that."

They lifted the shot glasses to their lips and downed the full two ounces in one swallow. Napoleon sighed against the burn of the alcohol. "Good vodka," he said his voice a little raspy.

Illya smiled. "At the risk of sounding pompous, only Russians know how to make decent vodka. Anything else is merely adulterated alcohol."

Solo raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really? I'll have you know, partner of mine, your vodka is really nothing more than Russian moonshine. And in this case, very expensive moonshine."

Before Illya could reply to the slight to his beloved favorite libation, a female voice beat him to it. "You'd better not say that too loudly considering where you are."

Both men turned toward the voice; Napoleon's lips broke into a pleasant smile of recognition while Kuryakin remained noncommittal. The American did notice, however, the slight widening of his Russian friend's eyes as the woman attached to the voice came into view. She was tall and slender, but shapely with delicate brunette tresses framing her deep brown eyes and cupid's bow-shaped lips. And she was exceptionally adept in the use of cosmetics for she had skillfully applied her makeup to accentuate her already attractive features without being over-done.

"Ah," Napoleon said jovially, "Tanya. You have perfect timing." He turned towards the blond friend. "Illya, I'd like you to meet Tanya Storbin, a Russian linguist with the UN." He was about to complete the introduction when Kuryakin stepped forward and reached for her hand.

"_Rad poznakomit'sya s vami, Tanya . Illya Nickovetch Kuryakin k vashim uslugam,_" he said with a slight bow.

She blushed slightly at his formality. "I'm happy to meet you, too; may I call you _Ilyusha_?" She blushed further at his deliciously wider smile.

"By all means," Illya said. Napoleon was certain he detected a distinctly stronger Slavic accentuation to his speech than usual. "You may call me anything you like."

"Except late for dinner," Napoleon mumbled under his breath.

The blond agent ignored the gibe. "I assume you are the 'pleasant' part of the evening, especially since Napoleon cannot be considered as the pleasant part of anything."

Tanya caught her involuntary laugh and looked over at Napoleon. "Oh, my. Your friend has a rather dry sense of humor, doesn't he?"

"Only when he's trying to impress. Actually it's just camouflage for a lack of manners," Solo dead-panned. "Illya, behave yourself."

"Oh, I _am_ behaving myself, my friend," Illya said slyly. "And let me take this opportunity to thank you for the drinks and the introduction. However, I believe I'll be able to find my own way home: later." He reached for the vodka bottle and ice bucket. "Tanya, may I show you to a quiet table for two where we can extol the virtues of this bottle of vodka my partner has so generously provided?" He snatched up the shot glasses, grasped her hand and led her away from the bar to a corner table in the rear of the restaurant.

Napoleon watched them but was not the least bit put out at his friend's behavior. Indeed, he was pleased that his plan had come together so effectively. He called for the bartender, paid the tab and with a glance to the back corner he smiled and headed for the front door.


	2. Chapter 2

"How did you become acquainted with my partner?" Illya asked casually, as he filled the two shot glasses once more.

"Napoleon and I met at a diplomatic event several months ago," she explained.

"Ah, yes, I remember the event well. He was perusing the ballroom in a tuxedo while I was playing cat burglar on the second floor recovering a stolen document from a very secure safe. We seem to find ourselves playing those roles quite often."

"By that, I suppose you mean Napoleon ends up at the party most of the time while you slink around in the shadows. Instead."

"What I'm supposing is that I do the part of the job for which I am better suited; as does Napoleon."

"But it does seem he gets more of the glamor-jobs than you do."

"Maybe," Illya replied thoughtfully, then smiled and remarked, "However, I do work very well in the dark."

"There's that dry sense of humor again. Is this a clue of what's to come?"

"Perhaps. I thought we would have dinner, garnished of course, with some stimulating conversation and we'll see where that takes us."

Tanya lifted what had been Napoleon's shot glass. "Very well, then: _Maye etogo vechera kontsa stol' priyatnym, kak on nachal_. (May this evening end as pleasant as it began)

Illya lifted his to meet hers. "_No Vy vse yeshche uvazhayut menya utrom_? " (But will you still respect me in the morning?) He grinned.

Tanya burst out laughing, nearly dropping her glass. She finally set it down to keep the liquid from spilling.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"What you just said."

"It was supposed to be merely amusing."

"Well," Tanya said still trying to stop laughing. "It was how you phrased it."

"Ah," Illya replied, understanding. "Well, I didn't feel our relationship had progressed to the point where I could use the blatant vulgarity our people have raised to almost an art form—not yet anyway."

"I think it was funnier this way," Tanya admitted. "You and that wonderfully dry humor. Can we try this again?"

They toasted, this time without a hitch. It was after the glasses had been refilled, that Kuryakin finally noticed that his partner had gone. "It looks like Napoleon considered his mission accomplished. I certainly hope he paid for the vodka." A smile played around the corners of his mouth.

Tanya laughed again. "_Ilyusha_, you are everything your partner said you were! He told me that you made a miser look like a spendthrift."

Illya raised an eyebrow. "Oh, did he? Let's just say I'm frugal and I haven't succumbed to the decadence of western culture for which Napoleon is the epitome."

"Spoken like a true Marxist. So does that mean we're going 'Dutch Treat' on our dinner?"

The blond Russian grew solemn. "Quite the contrary, _Tanyushka._ Despite my reputation, I do know how to show a lovely lady such as yourself the generosity she deserves. If you will permit me to order dinner for both of us, I promise you a feast for both the eyes and the palate. I know the chef personally, both of us being Ukrainian and he will prepare for us a specialty that's not found on the menu. Do you trust me?"

Tanya smiled broadly, showing her beautiful white teeth. "Absolutely, _Ilyusha_, and it's funny, but somehow I feel like I've known you for a very long time."

"The vodka is going to your head. I think a quick appetizer is in order." He caught the attention of the waiter and placed the order. As much as he was initially attracted to this woman, he couldn't help but feel concern for what inevitably would lay ahead: discontent at his circumventing answers to her personal questions, disappointment at dates made and cancelled last minute and the eventual anger at his refusal to give more of himself than he was able. The vicious cycle was the reason he rarely sought more than a single night encounter with any woman. The emotional cost to him was too distracting to his profession and too unfair to the women he feared he might like too much.

Over _Vinigret_, a salad of beetroots, peas, beans and onions, Illya skillfully manipulated the conversation to obtain the maximum information about his date while revealing nearly nothing about himself. Tanya didn't seem to notice or if she did, did not care. He remembered something Solo once told him about women when questioned his friend about his success with the fairer sex: "Woman love to talk about themselves; furthermore they love it more when you pay attention".

Over the soup course, he learned that Tanya's family name was actually Storbinsky and her parents had each emigrated from the Soviet Union just after Stalin had come to power, before World War II, making her a first generation American citizen. During the main course she rather cautiously claimed her Jewish heritage, though he had already surmised she was of that culture. That her parents lived in Brighton Beach also known as "Little Odessa" or "Little Russia" merely confirmed his presumption.

"You're not bothered by me being Jewish, are you?" she asked.

"Not at all," Illya replied. "You do not seem to be bothered by my personal convictions. And while I may lean towards the indoctrinations of my youth, as a member of my organization, I have adopted more of a 'One World' attitude, at least as it applies to the rights of people to determine their own destinies.

"That being said, how did a nice Russian Orthodox-Jewish girl like you become such an independent, free-spirited woman? I'm sure your father had other ideas."

"He may have, but Mama believed they were living free in a new country and that some of those old fashioned traditions like picking husbands for the daughters should be done away with." Tanya laughed. "Especially when my older sister put up this huge fuss when Papa tried to get her fixed up. We all became a little less Orthodox out of practicality."

"Well, out of practicality, having deduced your ideologies, I took the liberty of assuming you still kept the dietary laws and ordered accordingly. I hope you don't mind."

"I guessed that was what you were doing and while I'm not as strict as my parents, I keep Kosher when I can. Mostly because the food tastes better."

The blond Russian smiled knowingly. "You are absolutely correct in that respect. I live near a deli which I frequent for the same reason. Though out of personal taste, I must admit I lean towards the prosciutto more often than the cornedbeef. It is after all, catering to non-Jews as well."

"You want to know something, _Ilyusha_? I like prosciutto more than corned beef, too. But don't tell my dad." And they both chuckled at the start of their little conspiracy. "So, how do you manage to stay a Marxist in the midst of all this opulence in America?"

"You mean you don't know?" Illya answered with a grin and continued when she shook her head. "By making a miser look like a spendthrift!" They laughed again.

"Seriously."

The smile faded somewhat. "I'm quite serious."

She shook her head. "I don't believe you. Come on, tell me."

He shrugged slightly. "Everything I want, I have."

"I don't understand."

"Perhaps because you are an American and I am not."

"But we're eating in this really nice restaurant and I know the bill's not going to be cheap."

"This isn't something I do on a daily basis, _Tanyushka._ We're here because I know this is how women in America like to be treated. I may live in the middle of opulence, but I don't need to partake of _all_ of it." Another sly smile played at the corners of his mouth. "But I have to say am very fond of the quality of the food here. I'm sure your father has told you of the conditions in the Soviet Union."

"Yeah and it still makes me wonder how you can condone communism over capitalism."

"So you wish to debate the merits and liabilities of the two, then?" He sounded almost challenging, but there was still a smile on his face.

"Well, I think we should at least finish our dinner first."

"A stall tactic—perhaps your argument needs time for preparation, eh?" Now his eyes were beginning to dance.

"I just want to postpone for a more appropriate time and place."

"And what might that be?"

She smiled back into the deep blue eyes. "My place, later; over strong Russian tea."

"With strawberry jam?" And Illya felt a thrill of anticipation down his spine when she smiled broadly and nodded. Inwardly though, he pondered on how a lively debate over ideologies could make for some very unconventional foreplay.

After a deliciously decadent dessert, Illya paid the bill for the meal while Tanya visited the ladies' room to freshen her makeup. He held the door for her and followed her into the street, habitually glancing in all directions for signs of potential trouble.

"You're very cautious," Tanya remarked.

"It's necessary in my line of work. One can never be too careful. But," he continued ushering her towards the curb, "if you live nearby, I would be delighted to walk you home."

"I live in Brooklyn Heights."

"Well, then I shall hail us a cab as I do not wish to tire you before our upcoming debate." He smiled, "Or other activities."

"Why, Mr. Kuryakin, I believe you are propositioning me."

He raised his arm to catch the attention of a cab driver approaching. "Really? How unsubtle of me." He grinned and opened the cab door, allowing her to enter first. After he shut the door, he added, "Despite what Napoleon may have told you, I am very much a gentleman." With a smile, he lifted her hand and kissed it lightly as the cab driver pulled away from the curb.


	3. Chapter 3

The cab dropped them off at the intersection of State and Court Streets in Brooklyn Heights. After paying the cab fare, Illya allowed Tanya to lead him in the direction of her high-rise apartment. Unlike his own apartment, her building had an elevator which carried them to the eighth floor. She opened the door to a rather spacious living room.

Illya peeked through the door as she entered and flicked on the light. "Nice place," he commented.

"What's the 'but'?" Tanya said as he took several steps inside the room.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You have an unspoken 'but' hanging out there. 'Nice place'—but?"

"Oh, I see. Just that it's considerably more room than I'd ever need, that's all."

"It's a Marxist thing, huh?" Tanya laid her wrap on across the couch.

"Not really. I spend most of my time living out of a suitcase. I'm not around to appreciate any amenities."

"Don't entertain much either, I suppose."

"I'm hardly ever home and my apartment lacks the amenities for company. Besides, I rather enjoy my privacy."

"Yes, I know," Tanya said. When Illya raised his eyebrows curiously, she added, "I noticed you were circumventing most of my questions about you. You really enjoy being this 'man of mystery', don't you?"

"Not especially. It's more like there's safety in anonymity. Enough people know too much about me already, and they're not the kind of people you'd want to know."

"And what about _this_ person who's invited you up to her apartment after sharing a thoroughly delightful meal with you? Are you going to continue to dwell in the safety of anonymity?"

The blond Russian smiled a small smile of concession. "Let's hope not."

"How about we start with a nightcap?"

"Ah, the strong Russian tea."

"With strawberry jam," Tanya added with a smile of her own.

"Perfect. May I help prepare it?"

"Yes," she said and grasped his arm. She led him further into the room and pushed him down onto the soft couch. "You can relax while _I _make the tea. Another thing Napoleon told me was that you're pretty hopeless in the kitchen."

"I can boil water and I'm hardly malnourished."

"Yes, thanks to the Chinese carry-out around the corner and the deli down the street. Ever bake a cake?"

"I've never needed one."

Tanya laughed. "Oh, _Ilyushechka._ You are a delightful man. I am so going to enjoy peeling back your layers to find out who you really are."

For a moment, Illya was overwhelmed with the same kind of anxiety he experienced when a THRUSH interrogator was about to force information from him. Tanya saw the eyes turn icy, the mouth grow set, and she drew back uneasily.

"I'd better make the tea," she said retreating hastily to the kitchen.

He realized as she walked away from him that he had instinctively gone into defiance mode, complete with his usual antagonistic facial expression. _Damn!_ he thought, scowling at himself. He truly liked this woman; his Russian-ness ached for the familiarity of heritage, culture and history. And here she was: all of what he loved about his country and with none of the political nightmares.

Was it possible she was KGB, GRU or worse, THRUSH, ready to lure him into a false sense of security? Possibly, but he trusted Napoleon enough to know that he had thoroughly vetted her. He needed to apologize. He needed to admit to her that her words had unsettled him enough that his training had automatically overtaken his actions. He needed to confide in her how much she had actually frightened him.

He stood up, slowly making his way into the kitchen. "_Tanyushka_?" he said softly, apologetically.

She looked up, her eyes huge with trepidation.

He softened his expression to assuage her fears. "I'm sorry," he continued. "I shouldn't have done that."

"If your enemies aren't rattled when you look at them like that, they should be."

"It was never my intention to frighten you. But when you said you were going to enjoy peeling back my layers like an onion, _I _was rattled. I instinctively reacted as if I was being threatened. I'm trained to react to fear in this way."

"But why were you afraid?"

He sighed heavily. "That's not a question easily answered. Tanya, I'm not the kind of man you want to get to know too deeply. You undoubtedly would wish later that you hadn't done so."

"Is this your way of telling me that whatever happens between us tonight will never happen again?"

"Not necessarily, but it does mean that whatever we share will never be more than what it is tonight."

"I really like you, _Ilyusha_."

"As do I you. But it will still never be more than what it is now." He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. "Let's drink our tea. If you wish me to leave afterward, I will with no regrets. If you want me to stay, again I will with no regrets."

He picked up the teapot and carried it to her small dinette table placed cozily at a window in the kitchen. She followed with two cups and saucers, spoons and a jar of strawberry jam.

"Sit down," he said gently, "and let me pour the tea." He sat opposite her after filling their cups and then reached for the jam jar. "Ask me questions and I will try to answer."

"I don't want to freak you out again."

He smiled gently. "I will try very hard not to be freaked out." He lifted the teacup to his lips and prepared himself for interrogation.

Over the next half hour, he revealed his lack of parents, a _very_ brief overview of his life from childhood up until he joined UNCLE, his unease around dogs and things he missed about his homeland. The pair had drained the teapot dry and the blond UNCLE agent felt equally drained emotionally. He had never spoken so openly to anyone before in his life, not even to Napoleon: the only person he really trusted completely.

Tanya leaned on the table with both elbows. "Now was that so hard?"

"Believe it or not, it was incredibly difficult. Were you KGB, GRU or even THRUSH, I should say you would have the advantage of me."

She smiled coyly. "How do you know I'm not?"

For a moment, alarm sliced through his gut at her teasing, but he remembered again Napoleon's implied seal of approval. "I trust my partner," he said after mentally reassuring himself. "But if you were, I might be inclined to have my way with you and then kill you." A tiny smile touched his lips.

Tanya sat back. "You're serious, aren't you?"

"I warned you about digging too deeply into me."

"Well, to ease your mind, I'm not KGB or GRU or what was that other?"

"THRUSH," he provided.

"Whatever that is."

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Okay, I'll take your word on that. Would you still want to have your way with me? Without the killing afterwards, of course."

The smile broadened. "I've been considering it all evening."

She grinned. "You should do that more often."

"What, think about having my way with you?"

"Smile. It changes your whole face."

"What about the other?"

She stood up. "Well, let's go sit on the couch and see what we can do about that, okay?" She walked by him, grasping his arm and led him to the living room. There, she dropped down onto the couch and pulled him down beside her. "Let's see what kind of music a Russian Jewish linguist and a Soviet atheist spy can make." And she slid her arms across his shoulders and pulled him close.

She leaned forward to touch her lips to his when suddenly he stood up. "Is that _balalaika_ a family heirloom?" he said somewhat excitedly as he skittered across the carpeted floor to the far corner of the room. He picked up the exquisitely decorated, three-stringed triangular instrument and strummed his fingers across the strings, nodding. "Yes, it must be," he murmured. "This inlaid work is incredible." He looked up to see Tanya staring at him with exasperation. "What—?" he asked, bemused.

Then understanding filtered into his mind as he remembered what she had been initiating. "Oh. I guess that was somewhat rude of me, wasn't it?"

Tanya laid her arms along the back of the couch. "Yeah, I'd say that was a little more than somewhat."

"I saw this beautiful antique instrument very like the one I learned to play when I was a child and I suppose I was swept up in the memory of it. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. Why don't you play something for me?"

"I would like to hear _you_ play."

Tanya stood up and walked over to where Illya stood, protectively holding the balalaika in both arms. "I don't know how to play the thing. It belonged to my grandfather, but Papa didn't know how to play it either. When my grandfather died two years ago, I got the balalaika because I happen to like antiques. Come on, let's sit down again and then you play something for me."

Illya followed her back to the couch, sat down and laid the balalaika in his lap. He began first by strumming to hear the instrument's tuning, adjusting each string until he was satisfied with the harmony. It had been a while since he had played this configuration of open strings and the balalaika had half the number as the guitar, which he played as often as he could.

Skills learned long ago began to resurface and he strummed a simple melody he had learned early-on in his instruction.

"That's beautiful," Tanya commented. "I've never heard that one before and I was indoctrinated in the Russian and Jewish folksongs as far back as I can remember. Papa has a shelf-full of balalaika albums."

"It's a gypsy folksong," Illya said softly, offering no other explanation.

"So you're _tsagni _as well as Ukrainian? You're a very interesting man, _Ilyusha_."

"Not really. I lived with the _tsagni_ after my grandparents were taken in the Great Purge. My _babka_ was a _Ruska_ _Rom_."

"More layers," Tanya observed.

He looked up, his blue eyes showing a hint of something she had not seen before. "I have only ever told one other person what I just told you."

She nodded. "Napoleon. Not surprising."

"No, he does not know this about me. Only my superior at UNCLE knows my full history."

"What made you tell me?"

The blond agent sighed heavily. "There is something very important we must discuss before—" he paused while he searched for the right words.

Tanya couldn't wait for her date to figure out what he wanted to tell her while she already thought she knew what he was going to say. "_Ilyusha_, are you gay?"

He turned his head to look at her, surprised. "Whatever made you think that?"

"Well, you did seem to find my balalaika more interesting than kissing me."

"_Tanyushka, _I am not attracted to other men. Actually, I am very much attracted to you, which is why we need to talk plainly with one another."

It was Tanya's turn to sigh. "Why do I get the feeling I'm going need to open a bottle of wine for this conversation?"

Tanya opened a bottle of French Bordeaux she found in her cupboard and poured a large glass for herself. Surprisingly, the handsome blond-haired man with the blue eyes she guessed had melted many-a girl's heart shook his head. "Okay," she said sitting opposite him, "what are going to tell me that will make this bottle of wine necessary?"

"I've already told you some of it. And I really don't believe that wine will be necessary."

She shook her head. "I'm not following you."

"Layers," he said softly.

"You mean I'm digging too deeply into Illya Kuryakin again? You're the one who peeled back those life events, _Ilyushka_. I didn't ask."

"Yes, I did volunteer that information. And ever since Napoleon introduced us, I've been struggling with the decision of what I would like our relationship to be."

"It can be whatever we want it to be."

"Yes, but I'm not sure it can be what we _both_ want it to be."

"Can't we decide that as we get to know one another? What are you really trying to tell me?"

Illya reached across the table for her wine glass and downed half of it. "Perhaps I do need a little alcoholic bolstering."

Tanya looked at him. "This is about sex isn't it?"

"Well, yes. It is."

"UNCLE doesn't train you in the arts of seduction?"

"That's not the point, but yes, we're well trained."

"So you're able to 'perform' in the bedroom." She was half-smiling.

"This isn't a trivial matter, Tanya. What we do tonight will decide the course of our relationship."

She sat back, suddenly miffed. "All right, I'll tell you one thing, Mr. Kuryakin. I am _nobody's_ one-night stand. And I don't care how gorgeous I think your eyes are."

"I'm not suggesting that you would be a one-night stand for me. Didn't you hear or understand me when I said there would be nothing more than what it is right now?"

"Of course. So what's the problem?"

"Perhaps if I explained in more detail."

"If you feel you need to."

"Yes, I want you to know exactly what the future would hold."

"By all means, then."

"For UNCLE agents, sex is one of the many tools we use to obtain information or sway individuals to act according to our objectives. There is no emotion involved and we are not concerned with the feelings of the other person."

"Okay, I get it; you're a prostitute for UNCLE when necessary; part of the job. What about when you're 'off the job'?"

"There is only one directive, not ironclad, but strongly recommended: UNCLE agents are not to marry while they are active field agents. They may fool around all they like, and many, actually, most of them do, but if they consider marriage, our superior will a) try to talk them out of it or b) suggest they resign from active field service."

"What does your boss have against getting married?"

"Ideally, nothing. UNCLE agents, however, do not make good spouses. We cannot share most of what we do and you wouldn't want to know anyway. Spouses are also prime targets for extortion by our primary enemy. It isn't safe to be the wife of an UNCLE agent."

"So in place of marriage, you fool around a lot."

"Napoleon fools around a lot."

"And you don't: not even a little?"

"I don't have Napoleon's ability to romance women and then walk away leaving her with the pleasant memories of her affair with a dashing Don Juan."

Tanya gasped a laugh. "You're jealous of him!" quipped.

"I am _not_ jealous of Napoleon," Illya replied tersely.

"Oh, you are. You're green with envy."

He sat staring at the table for a long while as Tanya drained the glass of wine and refilled it again.

"Perhaps, a little," he finally conceded. "Here is the situation as I see it, the decision that needs to be made." He looked up. "We could go back into your bedroom and I could make love to you; multiple times if that's what you want, as well. And I could promise to see you again, but you would never know if I'd keep that promise because I can be off on assignment at a moment's notice. Eventually, you most likely will become unhappy with the arrangement I am unable to change because of my work. You will be angry that I don't share myself with you; that I don't seem to feel the same for you as you do for me. In my experience it ends badly; for both of us."

"But you keep doing it, don't you?" Tanya concluded. "'Hope springs eternal', right?"

"Yes, occasionally. More often, the women pursue me."

Tanya laughed wryly. "No surprise there. You are an incredibly attractive man with a sexy accent." She laughed again, chuckling. "Oh, _Ilyushechka_, you're blushing."

He frowned, annoyed but he wasn't sure if it was because of her teasing or his autonomic reaction to it.

Tanya stood up from the table, walked around it and grasped his hand. "Let's go take a shower together and see how you feel then. All right?"

Illya stood up, but he knew how he was going to feel, for his groin was already stirring in anticipation. He followed her towards the bedroom, hoping she did not detect his second autonomic reaction in his wooden-legged gait.


	4. Chapter 4

Tanya started the water in the shower, undressed and slipped under the refreshing stream while Illya shed his clothing in her bedroom. "Come on in, _Ilyusha_, the water's fine," she called.

Illya pulled back the curtain, just enough to slide into the tub without splashing water on the floor. Facing her, his eyes widened at the Venus standing before him and involuntarily, an invocation slipped past his lips. "_My God_—" He could not believe what he was seeing.

Suddenly, she was embarrassed not only by his rapt expression, but his full erection as well and abashedly crossed her arms across her chest, covering her breasts. "Oh_, Ilyushechka_, I can't do this," she almost whimpered.

"_Tanyushka_, what is it? What's wrong?"

"This was something I wasn't expecting and I can't go through with it. I'm sorry." She hastily stepped from the bathtub and reached for a towel.

Illya waited until he heard the door close behind her before he turned off the water and pulled back the shower curtain. Confused and pondering, he reached for a towel and wrapped it around his hips. Then, he cautiously opened the door. "Tanya, are you all right?"

Her bedroom door was open and she sat on the bed, still wrapped in a towel. She did not look up when he appeared in the doorway.

"_Krasiviy_ (beautiful one), now I have somehow freaked you out. Please tell me."

She shook her head. "You didn't. I guess I was more startled. Seems my Orthodox upbringing is stronger than I thought."

Illya was bemused. "Are you trying to say that you are a virgin?"

"Oh, no, not by a long shot, but Papa doesn't know that and you can never tell him."

"Your secret is safe with me. Keeping secrets is part of what I do. But—" The answer came to him then. "Oh, I think I understand. You cannot have sex with an uncircumcised male; outside the Faith as it were."

"It never occurred to me that you might not be. Circumcision is almost universal here in the States. Oh, I'm so sorry, _Ilyusha_. I was looking forward to it."

"You have no reason to apologize to me. I actually prefer this outcome."

"Why? I saw how you looked at me. God, you were so turned on, I wasn't sure we'd make it through the shower."

Illya smiled gently. "Autonomic reactions can be annoying, can't they? Tanya, I would never make you do anything you didn't want to do. But, now that I know there cannot be a physical relationship between us, I hope would be willing to see us in a different kind of relationship."

"What kind is that?"

"Perhaps you could persuade your father to adopt me?" He grinned.

Tanya gasped an incredulous laugh, but saw that man standing in front of her wrapped in a towel, was serious despite his facial expression. "Yes, I see. You want to feel like you're part of a family. A Russian family. A _Ukrainian_ family."

"Most of the memories of my family are about loss. I would like the opportunity to express my heritage without worrying about who might take offense because of world politics. Napoleon is very open-minded but he's an American. He really doesn't understand."

"Probably not. Well, _Ilyusha,_ this has certainly been an interesting date. So, if you become my surrogate brother, does it mean I get to peel back more of those layers without you jumping out of your skin?"

"If you tread carefully, I will do my best to keep my skin intact."

"What would you say to me dating your partner?"

"Only if I can act the 'big brother' and warn him of what would await him if he didn't treat you like the lady you are." He hitched at his towel. "So now, _sis_," he chuckled, "I shall leave you to your privacy so you may change into something less provocative." He went to the chair where he had deposited his own clothing. "And I will make another pot of tea." 

Monday morning, Napoleon caught up with his partner in the Commissary where the Russian sat at a table with the same journal he'd been reading the previous Friday.

The handsome dark-haired agent set his coffee and breakfast opposite his friend and sat. "So, how was the date?"

Illya looked up momentarily. "Very nice." And he went back to his reading.

"Oh, come on, it must have been more than nice. I didn't hear word one from you all weekend. Were you even home this weekend?"

"Not much," Kuryakin said absently.

"I knew you two would hit it off. She's a knock-out, isn't she?"

"Yes, very beautiful."

"And you two have a lot in common."

"More than you know."

"That's great. So what did you two do all weekend?" He smiled to himself. _As if he didn't know._

Illya looked at Napoleon over his black rimmed glasses. "Do I ask you the details of your multitude of trysts?"

"I just thought you might have a thought or two to share."

"No, not really."

"C'mon, Illya! Just a crumb, for Heaven's Sake!"

Illya laid the journal on the table. "Well, if you insist. I spent most of the weekend at her parent's house in Brighton Beach."

Napoleon looked back at his friend, suspiciously. "You what?"

"Yes. It turns out you didn't check her out quite thoroughly enough. Sure, she's a linguist for the UN, but her father is a KGB agent working out of the Soviet Mission. He spent the better part of the weekend interrogating me about my role in UNCLE. Thanks a lot, _partner_."

Napoleon sat back stunned, his mouth open in amazement. "I had no idea—Illya, I _checked _her out _completely_. Down to the date her parents immigrated to the US and became American citizens."

"Well, he interrogated me like the KGB. Some fathers are a little over-protective of their daughters, especially Orthodox Jewish fathers." A small smile began to form on the Russian's lips.

"You're putting me on, aren't you?"

The smile grew larger. "Her father did have a few questions. He even offered to find a _mohel_ so I could 'officially' become part of the family. I declined, of course."

"Why would they want you to be circumcised? It's not like you're not marrying their daughter or anything."

"She is very beautiful, as you said. And being Jewish, Orthodox, no less, there are certain conditions which need to be met."

"C'mon, Illya! Will you be serious?"

"Napoleon, Tanya is a lovely woman. Despite her open-mindedness, she is still Jewish and some traditions die hard. I understand. She, in turn, understands my situation. We like each other a great deal. Her parents are delightful people and we share a culture I have found myself missing for a long time.

Tanya and I will remain friends and I will have through her, Ukrainian relatives. I could not have wished for a better situation. Thank you, my friend."

Napoleon smiled. "Well, that's not exactly the outcome I was expecting when I arranged for the introduction, but I'm happy for the way it turned out for you." He stood. "I guess we'd better get to work."

Illya tucked his journal under his arm and followed Napoleon into the hallway. As they rode the elevator to their floor, he looked over at his friend. "By the way, if you might be thinking of dating Tanya yourself, I should warn you: she just acquired a very protective 'big brother' and you'll have to pass muster with him." Kuryakin smiled fiendishly. "You haven't a snowball's chance in hell."

_finis_


End file.
